


And I shall be dumped where the weeds decay

by ClockworkMallard



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt No Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kinda geraskier but not a lot, M/M, Mild Gore, Not to graphic but still prominent, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:53:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24869458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClockworkMallard/pseuds/ClockworkMallard
Summary: Jaskier had always known he was going to die. It was a given of life; you live, you die, sure some people live longer than others, but we're all destined for the same place in the end.Aka. Jaskier dies sad and alone
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 126





	And I shall be dumped where the weeds decay

**Author's Note:**

> Back on my bullsh*t ladies and gentlemen.  
> Recently got back in the Witcher fandom and decided to jump on the Jaskier angst train with this bad boy.
> 
> Heavily inspired by/based on 'where I rot' by lupinecup  
> (https://archiveofourown.org/works/23927326)

Jaskier had always known he was going to die. It was a given of life; you live, you die, sure some people live longer than others, but we're all destined for the same place in the end. _For who among men endures enterally?_ He chuckled softly, his chest aching with the movement. _'Still poetic even on my deathbed_ ' he thought to himself bitterly. He had always hoped to die surrounded by loved ones, all weeping at the loss of their most beloved and treasured friend, or at least surrounded by beautiful women or something a little comforting. This was not how he wanted to die, bleeding out, an arrow sticking out of his chest, _ruining_ his new doublet, the expensive blue fabric stained with an steadily expanding red stain. _The mud splatters from his fall wouldn't have been too hard to clean off if he scrubbed hard enough, but the blood was never going to come out._

He grunted, trying to adjust himself against the small tree he had managed to prop himself against. A sharp burst of pain shot through him as the bark grated at his tender wound. He gritted his teeth, squeezing his eyes as tears formed. _He was already dying, it wasn't fair that it had to take this long and hurt this much. Why couldn't the universe hurry up and just out him out of his misery?_

_He panted, his legs screaming, but he had to keep running. The footsteps and taunting laughter growing louder behind him. He just had to keep going, a little further, and maybe he'd outrun them, maybe they'd give up? There was a soft whistle as an arrow flew through the air, burying itself in his back. A shrill scream cutting through the quiet morning air. His knees buckled under him and he collapsed to the ground. He was so tired. Another arrow let loose sinking into his chest. The footsteps got closer and a pair of feet stopped in front of his prey. "It was a good hunt bard, but did you really think you could outrun us?" A distant voice called. Everything felt so distant. The initial pain was replaced with an unsettling numbness. 'Lucky me,' he thought 'At least I'll die painless'. He felt the pair of legs kick his leg, snickering, before he realised that the bard wasn't going to provide any further entertainment, and walked off mumbling something about a "waste of time" and "no fun anymore". The voices grew more distant. Their hunt was over, no point hanging around. The pain was gradually creeping back into his flesh, as his body realised what was happening. He grimaced, daring to look down at his chest. The arrow was deeply embedded, blood blossoming around the wooden shaft, dribbling down his white shirt._

Attacked, robbed, hunted for sport by some bored assholes. Not heroic, not majestic. A rather befitting death for a useless, good-for-nothing.

~~At least Geralt got his wish in the end. No more putting up with a whiney, rambling bard anymore. He could finally have the peace he craved, that he deserved.~~

No. He wasn't going to think about that, not now, not when he had so little time left to think.

Tears carved their way through the mud coating his paling face. His hands dug into the warm earth beneath him as he let out a small sob. The trees rustled as a light freeze swept past them, he could feel it go straight through his chest. He shivered, his hand trying to pull his doublet closer, before realising it was pinned in place by the shaft protruding from his flesh. _Had it always been this cold this time of year? He couldn't honestly remember. The memories were drifting from his grasp, he tried to get a grip, but they were slipping through like the wind._ The world in front of him was gradually shifting out of focus, his eyes sagging as he felt the blood trickle down onto the leaf litter, pooling uncomfortably underneath him.

He felt a small tickle against his hand. He looked down, his head slumping against his chest. A small spider was making its way across his skin, a tiny thread of silk following it, sticking to his blood encrusted palm. He felt a small smile tug at his mouth.

There was an old proverb - "If at first you don't succeed, try, try, try again," it came from a old folk tale. There was a king, fighting to retake his throne, but his armies had been decimated by the much stronger enemy forces and he had been forced to hide in a cave. As he hid, he saw a small spider building a web, however it kept breaking. Nonetheless the spider continued, it kept trying until it succeeded. Inspired by the spider's determination, the king rallied his broken army for one last stand. The armies met and after a long, bloody battle, the king was victorious.

~~No matter how many times he tried to be a better person for Geralt, no matter how many times he had tried to improve himself, he had always failed.~~

His smile faded. The spider slowly crawled up onto his sleeve and made its way up his arm, disappearing round the side of his elbow.

He bumped his head gently against the tree, his eyes climbing upwards. A few lazy clouds drifted past the blue sky. ~~Geralt was somewhere under this same sky. Somewhere in the vast expanse of the world wandered his Witcher.~~

It had been months since he left Geralt on the mountain, but he was all he could think about. He could picture him now, running towards him, through the trees, his wild, silver hair billowing behind him as he collapsed in front of the fallen bard, holding his hand, cradling his head in his arms, weeping perhaps? Maybe that was a stretch. Geralt had never been the best at expressing his emotions. Anger, annoyance and impatience being the only ones he seemed to show on a regular basis. He had always secretly hoped that the Witcher held a love for him, if not a love, at least some form of fondness or appreciation. He could hear him now, apologising for the cruel things he said, swearing he would never leave his side again. Then he blinked and there were only trees and the quiet call of a nearby bird.

His eyes sagged further, begging for rest. He relented, closing his eyes, focusing instead on the soft song of the bird, the rustling of the leaves. It was peaceful.

Maybe he could be at peace here?

Maybe, just maybe.

There was no harm in hoping.

**Author's Note:**

> And the rest is rust and star dust  
> ~ Vladimir Nabokov
> 
> Stole the line "For who among men endures enterally?" from the song An Eala Bhan because I thought it works nicely here, plus it's just a nice line.  
> Bonus points if you recognise which folktale I nicked for the spider tangent


End file.
